


Worms

by Whatevergirl



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Madeleine Era, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatevergirl/pseuds/Whatevergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Makinghugospin prompt: 'A cruel criminal who has a grudge against Javert manages to bury him alive. Somehow Valjean (either as Madeleine or whatever) finds out and rushes off to save him. I'd also like to see some fluffy comfort after the rescue.'</p><p>So... A Javert is buried alive fic =)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Javert

His breath caught in his throat as he gasped, hands stuck by his sides. He tried to twist them around, managed with some struggling to press them against the wood that separated him from the dirt. It had been a mistake to rush after the man. He should have waited for Raoul to return from sending someone to fetch more officers. 

It was too late now. Javert was stuck. It had been at the funeral home. He had been knocked out from behind as he had crept inside to apprehend Girard. He tried to keep his breathing calm. Raoul knew he was here and the man was not an idiot. He would realise that... 

Javert let out an angry huff of breath. What exactly would Raoul realise? Javert knew his head was bleeding, he could feel it seeping out, spreading from the throbbing wound on the back of his head. He was pretty sure there was another injury on his temple, but he could not see. It was too dark... it was so dark. No light...

The light was so far away. He pushed up; the wood was too heavy to shift, but he was sure he heard it creak. Was that a creak? How strong was this coffin he was in? Was it strong enough to hold back the mass of mud and dirt above him? How deep was he buried? He thanked God it had not been raining when he had last seen the skies. Rain made the earth heavy. He did not want any more weight above him.

Why was the boy taking so long? They should have found him by now! Raoul must be some kind of imbecile! There would be blood on the floor, and it would not lead them out the door! He had to be bleeding enough to leave a trail! He was so thirsty. He had been working all day- all evening too! He had not stopped for rehydration since early evening. His mouth was dry...

Was that another creak? Javert tried to bring his hands up, wanting to cover his face. The coffin was too tight a fit. He could not get them past his chest... it was taking them a long time to get here. There was a coffin missing up there, a policeman disappeared and a freshly dug grave! How difficult would it be to put the pieces together? 

He wondered if he would be given a funeral. The thought struck him as funny, and he chuckled. They would have to bury an empty coffin, if they did. It would be empty, because his body already filled a coffin. If only they knew, it would save on costs. He chuckled, high and rapid; it was almost a panicked giggle, except Javert was not panicking. He was completely calm. It was pointless thinking about funerals. He would be rescued soon.

Would anyone attend his funeral? There would be officers, those bound by duty, they would attend. Would the mayor? He was a handsome man, Javert had always thought. He was handsome and thoughtful, he always insisted on sitting beside Javert on a Sunday morning. 

He wondered if he would go to Heaven. He had tried to be a good man, to stay away from evil... what if Madeleine was right, though? What if to get into Heaven you needed mercy? Did he even want to go to Heaven? Sitting about doing nothing? It did not sound like paradise...

Madeleine had once said in Heaven, you could have what would make you happy; that if you were unsure as to what that was, you did not need to worry. God would always know how to make you happy. Javert supposed that was good. He did not know how to make himself happy in this life, how could he know what would make him happy for eternity?

He’d find out soon enough... No. He would survive this. It was awfully hot though, he was sweating, beads dripping down his body. How long had he been here? Was this heat the sun’s influence? Surely it had not been a full night. How long did it take to get him out?

He shifted slightly. How much air did this thing hold? Would the mud above prevent him from getting anymore? He held back a whimper. His eyes stung, water trickling from them; it had to be his sweat. It was his sweat that caused them to burn, because it was hot in here.

There was a crack. Javert could not prevent the wail that left his lips. There was a great pressure on his leg; perhaps the wood there had broken. He focussed on breathing. It was important to keep breathing. He may be able to hear voices when people came, then he could shout. It would hurt though. His throat was so dry. It was painful now. He had to breathe though his nose, it may dry out his throat quicker through his mouth.

He felt sick. He felt thirsty. He felt weak. He was an idiot. How could he let some fool catch him like this? He must not have checked everywhere when going into the room. How had the man come up behind him? Girard was slippery though, like some kind of sea creature. 

He had been known as 26730 at Toulon. He had been a quiet young man, the sort who lured his prey in before biting. His stay had been lengthened for killing convicts on three separate occasions. The magistrate had ordered his death at last; there had been no case to save him, after all. 

The man terrified Javert; he could not even find any shame in admitting it. He was deceptively small, but he had a mind for angles, and where to hit the human body to cause the most damage. There was only one form of execution now, according to the state. 'Tout condamné à mort aura la tête tranchée', meaning ‘Any person sentenced to death shall have his head cut off.’ It meant they could not torture anyone. He had always hated the screams he could hear, as a child imprisoned with his mother, he had hated the torture inflicted on people, being able to hear them beg for an end, to hear them sob.

Perhaps... it was harsh to think this, and he knew men like Madeleine would be able to rise above such feelings, but perhaps it would not be wrong for this man. He tore people apart, limb from limb. The organs had been missing from the men he had been arrested for killing. He had hinted many times at what had happened to them... how tasty a heart was, how delicious the liver... Did he know what a kidney looked like? How curious the appearance of the brain, a thing to control everything everyone did, how it smelt as it cooked... 

This was not helping settle his nausea. He wriggled slightly, feeling a tug on his leg. It hurt. His bladder hurt. He had not relieved himself in some time. He was in no position to curl on his side and ignore it. Surely Raoul would be here soon. Even with lanterns they could not miss the fresh grave. No one had their funeral at night. He’d be found... soon, surely... 

This time, he would make sure the man did not escape on his way to the guillotine. 

Javert was still thirsty, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. How long did it take to get here? He felt light-headed. Maybe his wound had stopped bleeding, he could not tell...

Was it daytime yet? What would the morning bring? What if Girard was still here? He could hurt the men looking for him. Javert frowned at that. He did not want to die, but he was not so important that others should die in the search for him. Perhaps they had begun to spread out from the home, to search elsewhere... he hoped they would be safe.

He tried to pray to God, to ask that he watched over them. He could not make the words form in his head. Was that a creak? There was no noticeable increase in weight, but it would not be long... he felt his bladder relax, felt the warmth as he failed to stop himself. At least the worms did not care...

He wondered if worms had thoughts, not the same as human, but could they feel fear, and hunger? He tried to imagine being a worm. It would be easy to escape. The air would not be crushing in on him. The earth would not be crushing him.

He wished Madeleine was here. With his inhuman strength, the man could get him out. Imagining it was the mayor’s strong arms that held him held; pushing himself into the fantasy pushed the panic back slightly. Javert tried to imagine the smell of the man. The few times he had gotten close enough, he had smelt most amazing. The inspector had always wanted to bury his face in the man’s neck and inhale...

Could worms smell? He would not want to be a worm if he could not smell... he could often tell where in the town he was, just based off the smell. The few times he had caught a cold, he had been unable to smell properly. It had been most disconcerting trying to work through it.

Would his throat rip if he did not get a drink? It was starting to feel that way, like a graze when you fell on rough stones...

There was a noise above him, and then another creak. What was it? Perhaps Girard was coming back to kill him properly... his thoughts of safety in the mayor’s arms fled. He began to panic again. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but he could not tell if his eyes were open or not. He would check where his eyelids where, but he could not move his arms. They hurt too.

He gasped slightly... had that been a voice? He tried to shout, to get someone’s attention, but his voice cracked painfully, and only a squeak escaped. He scraped weakly at the wood, wishing he could make more noise. Did they know he was here?

He giggled slightly, nothing more than a shuddering gasp really, but a thought had struck him; the worms might have told them. He tried to imagine Picard conversing with a worm. His lips cracked as he grinned.

“Javert?” The voice was weary. He wriggled some more, unable to speak.

“Javert?” Came the same weary tone a few moments later. Was that Madeleine he could hear? He put more effort into speaking. It was painful, but he managed a noise. He licked his lips, he tasted blood. Was he bleeding? How odd...

“Javert?” the voice was startled; it began giving directions, shouting for people to dig. It asked for a shovel...

He wanted to answer, to keep the voice talking. Perhaps God passed that message on, because the voice started up again.

“Are you in there, Javert? You need not worry; your officers have caught Girard.” 

Perhaps it was his imagination, but the air seemed lighter, less imposing, all of a sudden.

“We will have you out soon. I apologise it took so long. I saw your officers while they were trying to find extra shovels to get you out. Your men are most dedicated.”

Did that mean it was the mayor then? Javert would blush at the idea, but he was finding it difficult to do anything but lie there. Even shifting his head seemed like too much effort.

He listened carefully, trying to catch and process every word Madeleine spoke. It was difficult. Some of the words were hard to hear over the ringing in his ears. He hoped the worms were out of the ways though. He did not want them to get hurt after they had kept him company. They had been separated by the box he was in, but it was no fault of any one worm he had been too slow to notice Girard.

There was a thump above him, followed by yells. He listened as the wood was pulled away. His eyes slammed shut. It was so bright. A cool hand covered his own, and someone began to pull him out.

Javert kept his eyes shut, unable to take the pain. He allowed himself to be pulled up and cradled in someone’s arms. There was a lot of activity going on around him, lots of shouting... he took a deep breath and realised he was in Madeleine’s arms. He could recognise the smell. 

It took effort to open his eyes. He hurt all over, and trying to get his body to do anything seemed like a task, but he managed to blink through the light to see the man.

Jean Madeleine smiled gently down at him, the brilliant blue of the surrounding sky made him seem almost like an angel. Javert sighed and allowed his body to relax, falling fully into the man’s arms. He was safe.


	2. Valjean

Jean Valjean dipped his cloth in the bowl of cold water again, before wringing it lightly and laying it back upon Javert’s forehead. The man had a mild fever, but in reality it was the least of Valjean’s concerns at the moment. The man also had a broken leg, which had a bad infection. He was also unable to sleep peacefully.

This was, he knew, due to his recent ordeal. The inspector had been trapped in a coffin underground for an unknown length of time. It had been mid afternoon when they had retrieved him from the box, white as snow. He was not entirely convinced of how aware Javert was of his surroundings, but the doctor had informed him he was dehydrated, injured, infected and he could not expected to know what was going on. 

Girard had been arrested. Mayor Madeleine would ensure the man did not escape again, not after his treatment of the town’s inspector. Valjean was torn between wanting him to serve his sentence, to be kept away from the public, yet horrified that the man would be killed. His life would be taken, and someone had to break God’s Law: Do not kill.

Valjean just focussed his attention on Javert; cleaning the wound as he had been instructed; dripping water into his mouth; keeping an eye on his fever. The doctor had set Javert’s leg. He had splinted it and bandaged it, leaving the mayor with instructions to keep the other from moving on it. Valjean would do that. He did all that the doctor ordered, and he did his best to chase away nightmares too.

Javert seemed to have a lot of night terrors. On several occasions, he had lost control of his bladder. Valjean was glad the inspector was not aware of what was going on. He was a private man, and would not like the idea of being undressed and washed by anyone.

Valjean had done this though, cleaning the whole of the man’s body. All of it. Every. Inch... it was the strangest form of self inflicted torture. When Valjean forced himself to sleep, his dreams were filled with Javert’s bare skin. He was not unconscious in these dreams, but awake and demanding. Commanding. He had had dreams of Javert riding his body, using the same motions he saw when the inspector rode Gymont. This was not helped by sleeping in the same bed as Javert, but there was little he could do about this. He was unwilling to leave Javert’s side; the room only had one bed and it was too small to drag another one in.

He slept by Javert’s side, waking on several mornings to find the man had curled up over his chest. There was something wonderful, yet terribly saddening by it. to feel the man he loved (and he was capable of admitting this, at least to himself) curled up with him, but to know the man had no idea what he was doing, and would not lie there comfortably if he did.

Valjean had started reading his favourite Bible verses out to Javert; he was not going into work, and he did not want to simply sit and watch the man. He had spent the first hour sitting there, but he had been unable to get the image of how they had found Javert out of his head.

He had seen the officers searching for shovels, had heard them shouting and making a racket. He had gone to inquire as to the problem. They had informed him they had caught a convict, Girard, and that they believed him responsible for Inspector Javert’s disappearance. He had felt a brief pang of pity for the man, wondering if he had been made unwelcome by others when he had been released from Toulon. He had then been informed the man was a murderer and had escaped his carriage on the way to the guillotine. His feelings of concern had disappeared, turning to horror when he was informed where they believed Javert to be: buried alive.

He had hurried to the graveyard, falling to his knees by the hole the police were digging up to shout down. He had ended up sitting there for nearly two hours, shouting down because the officers believed that if Javert would respond to anyone, it would be the mayor. He had been most frustrated, and he had given up any hope of getting a reply.

Javert had responded though. It had just been an odd noise, a sort of painful croak. It had been enough. Valjean had ordered them to hurry, then grabbed a shovel and helped as they took too long. He kept his talking up though, wanting to hear more evidence that Javert was down there. There had not been any more noise, not until they had uncovered the man.

Valjean pushed Javert’s hair back gently, before taking back the cloth to rewet it. Javert had been half insensible when they had pulled him out. His clothing had been dirty, and his trousers soiled. Valjean had been unable to resist holding the man close though. He had managed to catch the words Javert had been whispering through bloody lips. It had been the same thing, over and over: Worms. Don't hurt the worms...

Javert shifted, and his eyes flickered slowly open.

“Javert? Are you awake?” the man seemed to be though. He was not dazed; looking about uncomprehendingly as he had been the other few times he had awoken. 

He made to whisper something, but his dry lips peeled slowly apart, and Valjean jumped up. He scooped up a cup of water, helped Javert to sit up, and carefully tipped it into the man’s mouth. After a few moments, Javert’s large hands came up to cover his own around the cup. 

Javert looked at him, a confused frown upon his face.

“Monsieur?”

“Javert. I am relived you are awake. I was most concerned.”

“Monsieur?”

“Just Madeleine, please. Say what you will.”

“You... found- Oh! Girard! Did someone get-” Javert’s words were cut off by his vicious coughing. Valjean firmly rubbed his back, allowing the empty cup to drop onto the bedding as he moved to support his inspector.

“He has been rearrested. Do not worry.”

Javert smiled slightly, just a twitch of his lips, but it showed his relief. The man tilted to the side, falling into Valjean’s chest. His eyes shut, and his breathing evened out. Valjean let him sleep.

He left a note downstairs for the doctor, before heading to bed. The man would be along tomorrow afternoon, but Valjean was hoping to get plenty of sleep, now that he knew the head injury Javert had received had not damaged his mind.

He slept beside Javert, taking comfort in his warmth. He offered the man comfort too, when he awakened, frightened that Girard would harm his men. Valjean settled back to sleep once Javert calmed down. He could not help pressing a kiss to his hair, his feelings of love for the man overwhelming. He was a wonderful person, even if in his dreams, he did keep muttering about worms.

Valjean made a mental note to ask about that. He could not really connect it to anything, as he did not recall the inspector ever having much of an interest in them before. They had had several evening meals together, and during these they had discussed all manner of things. Worms had never been one of their topics.

He shut his eyes, dreaming of Javert never moving out, but living with him from now on... it was an impossible dream though. He had never heard of his inspector taking a lover, and the man had taking an awful lot of convincing to simply come and share a meal with him, it would never be so easy.

It was a sweet dream though, one he would keep with him.

In the morning, Javert was most disagreeable. Although the man had made no comment about waking up upon Valjean’s chest, he had not liked the idea of remaining in bed. When he learned he had lost a week, the man had been even more determined to get up. Valjean had pinned his shoulders to the bed and tried to get the man to rest. He had insisted that his leg would not heal properly if he did not.

It took several more days, but the idea of being unable to do this job ever again forced Javert to lie still. Unfortunately, he lay there with little grace. He whined and squirmed and moaned worse than a sick child. The man did not mix well with inactivity. He forced the man to eat, this was difficult as well. He claimed to be full after a few mouthfuls of whatever they were eating.

If Javert was ever sick again, Valjean was heading out of town on business.

Except, this sick Javert enjoyed cuddling into his chest, waking or sleeping. He was capable of smiling; he even answered Valjean back several times, with sharp wit. Valjean did not want to miss out on any chance he could have to see this again. He also had a tendency to press his face into Valjean’s neck. He would allow his body to fall in whatever uncomfortable position to manage it.

Valjean had to admit, he was greatly enjoying himself. If Javert did not keep stopping to cough and retch, and if he spoke with more than a thin voice, it would likely be close to perfection.

The only thing that would move it those last few inches would be to have Javert kiss him. He was quite aware the man would not though. 

Valjean had discovered over many months of getting to know Javert that the man had little self worth. He genuinely could not understand the idea that anyone could care for him. The past few days had simply reinforced this notion. 

It tore at Valjean’s heart. He wanted to tell Javert he was loved. He wanted to smother the man in kisses morning, noon and night. He wanted to hold the man close and chase his demons away.

He could not though. Javert believed the man he slept beside was Jean Madeleine; an honest, if somewhat eccentric philanthropist who only wanted the best for his town. Valjean tried very hard to be this man. He truly did want the best for the town; he wanted it to thrive, to be a safe haven to those who needed somewhere to relax. He knew his habits were viewed as odd, and he tried to avoid telling lies. He was aware his being here, though, was the biggest lie of all.

The man who slept beside Javert was Jean Valjean. He was a pious, loving man, but he was not honest. He allowed himself one concession every night; he would press his lips to Javert’s forehead, sometimes, to his cheek. He loved Javert dearly, so while he held the man close, while he helped him recover, he would not kiss his lips. He would not declare his love.

To declare his love, then have Javert discover in the future his lie? It would not end well. He would like to think he could live out his days as Madeleine, but it could not last. Hopefully, one day he would tell Javert that he, as Jean Valjean, loved him with his whole heart; it was not to be anytime soon though. He would not confess his love, and then have Javert later question the truth in every word he had said. 

It would destroy the man, and that, in turn, would destroy Valjean. For now, he could keep Javert safe from the enclosing walls in his sleep, and the overpowering darkness that held him in its grasp. He would love Javert in silence.


End file.
